Verb Usage

To Recover
"Good morning," I rolled over to greet Chienne this morning as I slowly emerged from sleep. Instead of the slow, sad blink she has offered the past few days, I ended up with arms full of wriggling canine while she placed kisses on my nose and chin.

"Oh," I offered, nuzzling closer and beginning to cry a little even as I tried to keep her tongue out of my mouth. "There's my girl." I smoothed her coat and told her I loved her and realized I missed this. While it's sometimes annoying - being tackled by an exuberant dog when I've just awakened - it was one of those moments that struck me as completely lovely after being absent for several days.

She pranced when I returned from work and shopping this afternoon. She carried a ball to me - I don't get to throw it, but I may look at it while she keeps it proudly between her teeth. I think she's feeling much better.

To Adapt
"I don't mind," I've always said of being tested on our equipment, "but I don't particularly like it." But as demands grow increasingly intense and I find myself walking through dimly lit hallways late at night or over weekends more and more often, I'm increasingly content to play guinea pig.

"You are OK?" I nodded in response to my European colleague's question, realizing that I had also grown used to the cadence of her speech. It no longer took me a moment to mentally replay a sentence to fully understand it.

As I shifted in the dim light during testing, finding a comfortable position and reminding myself to relax, I realized that I underestimate the capability of me and mine. Chienne will eventually go blind in her right eye and be completely unable to see. I will at some point get pushed past my breaking point at work. But both of us will make adjustments and adapt to our new circumstances.

To Select
"You do not mind?" I shook my head in response to her question, inviting her again to join me at Target after we grabbed lunch. We'd finished our work and I'd make a quick call to Adam to offer firm suggestions of what needed to happen to make work more bearable for our team. He's been out of the office and people are taking shameless advantage. I have decided I do not approve. Though, as always, I felt better after speaking with him.

"It's pretty much like all the others," I offered when she said she hadn't been there before.

"I've never been to them either," she explained, making me blink at her in surprise, pausing in my quest to obtain a bright red cart. At lunch, she spoke of her longing for the sea, the lack of chain restaurants in her region at home and how America was different than Italy. Yet it still surprised me that she would walk through Target for the first time. I quickly altered my 'grab Diet Coke, dog and cat food and head home' to meander through aisles as she explored.

"They have everything," she breathed as we stopped almost immediately to look at candles. She exclaimed over the sizes and colors and scents, all available and aligned neatly on shelves. I nodded, attempting to look suitably impressed while she showed me all the choices. We repeated the experiment in bedding - she found a new comforter after I reminded her of how we name bed sizes. (I don't know why twin is the smallest. I suppose it should fit two people. Technically, depending on the position of the pair, it actually would.) Then again in luggage - we evaluated carry-ons and backpacks. And once more in bedding when we returned to make absolutely sure she had what she wanted.

Thinking her adorable, I pushed the cart containing my dog and cat food, Diet Coke and new suitcase while she carried her new bedclothes and a small bag with candles inside. She reached to kiss my cheek before we parted, telling me to pass the gesture along to my puppy. While I took this job based on location, salary and opportunity, I'll reiterate that I did beautifully with colleagues.

To Repeat
Remember Pete? Of the 'told me I couldn't defend mere weeks before my defense date even though I had job offers and was ready to leave' fame?

He did it again.

Despite my warnings, students seem to think such a thing couldn't happen to them. A former group member put that waste of a human being on her committee and rather than calling it off early, he decided her work wasn't good enough and convinced the committee to fail her at her presentation. Which leaves me utterly disgusted with all of them.

Knowing that he feels justified in these actions leaves me furious. This asshole must be stopped and while considerable thought leaves me unable to devise a suitable plan, I may see him in a couple of weeks while I travel on business. Let the plotting commence.

To Blog
When I was small, I had a plastic cup with a cartoon of some sort printed on the side. I would carefully drink my milk or juice from said cup while I sat at Grandma's sunny kitchen table, often watching the squirrels balance on the wires near the alley. If I grew bored of the bushy-tailed creatures, I would examine the image on my cup, noticing that the character - who was also sitting at a table with his own cup - had the same picture as I did on his own cup. Therefore, with the proper resolution, I assumed that the picture on the character's cup also contained another cup with another picture of another cup. And now - if you followed that - I totally blew your mind. (If you didn't, you'll have to trust me.)

A glimpse into the infinite is at once fascinating and boring. For I sat and stared at that cup for long moments, wondering what stopped a loop from looping and how many characters could continue to have cups with the same pictures on the sides. But when Grandma and I sat to talk about it, the conversation at some point comes to "Yes, Katie. That would be a lot of cups, sweetheart." And there you have it.

So goes, for me, any discussion of writing online. I do more than my fair share of blogging about blogging - and have put additional thought into the concept while I wasn't actively writing and in the week I've been back - but, once finished, I look around, beaming with pride and announce, "I noticed that! Aren't I observant and sensitive and clever?!" And some of you are kind enough to smile at me and reply, "Yes, Katie. But it's all rather obvious, sweetheart." Then I give us all a break and toddle off for a nap.

The one message I will reiterate is that being away made me recognize what a source of comfort and support is available here. I very much appreciate the comments and emails and gift card (from ScienceWoman and Princess Pup - totally made me cry) while Chienne and I struggled through this week. When I heard about Pete and remembered how I tentatively started posting years ago and think about how much I've learned from and grown to love many of you, the awe I feel is not unlike staring into the infinite on the side of a plastic cup.

In a good way. In case that wasn't clear.

Update

Dear BlogFriends,

I cried when I dropped her off this morning. She looked over her shoulder at me while trotting back with the tech. I called every hour, worry warring with the intense requests coming from all angles. For once, I didn't care about the Absolutely Urgent and Earth-Shatteringly Important Issues (!!!!!).

She whimpered with every bump we hit on the way home, resting a paw on my leg as I kept one hand on her back.

I coaxed her into her chair, fretting when she'd restlessly move about, only to droop until she was resting wherever she was. She stood with only her head out the dog door until I walked over and offered to go outside with her.

We slept - both of our heads hurting - and I woke at 11. She followed me downstairs so I scrambled her an egg and was pleased when she ate. She's since gone back to bed and I'm attempting to handle some of these critical issues.

Thank you for the your comments and concern. The reminder of mortality is rarely a pleasant one and I don't know what I'll do when I eventually lose her. It was a rough day today and I expect tomorrow will be a bit uncomfortable as well. But we'll stay here in our comfortable house and mostly ignore the world as she heals.

Love, Katie

Not OK at all.

“OK,” I smiled before I shrugged into my coat and waved to the group congregated in a room at work. “I should be back in an hour or two. Call if you need me.”

“Hi, pretty girl,” I greeted Chienne when I walked in. We spent a restless night and I woke with a headache. She stayed in bed while I got ready, picking up her head to show me her open but very cloudy eye. I dutifully called when the vet opened, though I did so from work.

“OK,” I said with resignation when they told me 11:30 was their only opening though I asked for something a bit later. “I’ll be there.”

We walked in a bit early and were ushered to a small exam room. I sighed while the vet clucked and hummed and wasn’t fazed when he said he was ‘very concerned’ about the eye. He seems ‘very concerned’ about most things.

“OK,” I blinked at him and replied with my oft-used word when he told me to go immediately to the eye clinic.

“OK,” I said, forehead creasing with worry when he said it was glaucoma. The pressure was far too high, he told me.

“OK,” I said, feeling heavy with guilt and sorrow when he told me the left eye was blind and the condition was likely permanent.

“OK,” I whispered when he noted it would likely need surgical attention. They’d try medication first but by the time most of these cases are caught, it’s too late to do much in the way of prevention.

“OK,” I replied, my response barely audible, when he said there was a good chance it would affect the other eye as well. That pressure was elevated there too, though not as dramatically as the left.

“It’s not life threatening,” I stated, for the alternative was simply unacceptable. I’d taken in all the other information, uttering those same two syllables as I acknowledged that I understood. The vet touched my shoulder and confirmed that she would be fine and with a single nod of thanks, we sped across town to the clinic that was awaiting our arrival.

Her eye glowed green in another exam room, lights extinguished while a thin beam of light illuminated it. The specialist stared as he shifted, moving to his counter to change instruments so he could look some more.

“There’s no vision,” he said gently, regarding me kindly as I stood with tear-stained face and trembling hands pressed to Chienne’s coat.

“In either eye?” I asked, horrified, and he quickly shook his head. He explained pressures and chances of recovering vision and his tech began to administer drops and shots and some goo that would dehydrate her.

“I don’t want to leave her,” I insisted when he offered to keep her for observation and brought her home to put in drops and deprive her of water myself. We returned a few hours later and he noted some improvement. “It’s a blind eye,” he said, not unkindly. Then he outlined plans to put her under anesthesia and inject some antibiotic to reduce the ability of eye to create so much pressure. We have it scheduled for tomorrow.

“OK,” I said, looking up at him as I sat on the floor with my dog. We went outside and I looked into her one brown eye, the other cloudy and useless beside it. I was unable to blink back tears as I pressed a kiss to her brindled head while I whimpered words of love and apologies. She's across the room, more drops administered and pain medication swallowed, asleep in her chair. Conversely, I keep wiping at tears while I write of how I failed my precious puppy. But she had me for today - I never did make it back to work.

Trade

"Oh, no," I murmured, interrupting Chienne's joyful greetings by dropping to my knees before her. "It's worse, isn't it?"

I peered at her right eye much as I did this morning. Then I was concerned because it looked cloudy. In my spare moments, I fretted over it during the day. But my desire to check on my favorite creature in the world warred with pressure to get more done. So I left work as it neared 9PM and, some 12 hours after I left her, realized her eye health had gone in the wrong direction.

"We used to be best friends," I told Joe while we worked extra hours yesterday. "Now we rarely take walks - maybe once a weekend - and I go home to deal with email and work I didn't finish then I sleep. No walks, not much playing. She just curls up beside me in bed and across the room in her chair when I work."

"She's an abandoned child," he teased me and I smiled sadly. Seeing the cloud of guilt surround me, he patted my knee reassuringly. "She's fine," he said firmly. And I nodded.

But she's not fine. Her eye is sick. And I don't really have time to help her until tomorrow afternoon.

I apologized profusely, stroking her head while soaking her eye with a wet cloth as Friend gently instructed me to do when I typed a frantic message to her. Chienne promptly became pitiful, enjoying the extra attention since she normally gets so little.

I feel terrible, ridden with guilt and remorse. So I'll call the vet first thing tomorrow - responsibilities be damned - and see when she can go in.

At which point I can start worrying over who is doing this critical tasks that I had been assigned for tomorrow. So while it doesn't really bother me to wear satin panties - not out of the desire to entice or impress but because nothing else is clean - and I'm OK with the general clutter that exists around me, this particular neglect has me positively sick of myself.

I'll update you on the poor, poor girl tomorrow. For now, she's resting at the foot of the bed amidst all my covers. Because she deserves them and, in other areas, I've clearly let her down.

Intensity

I trembled with fury.

I looked down at my hands as they rested on the keys of my work PC, squinted my eyes into a vicious glare and seethed.

*****

“I applied for your job,” Fred offered last week. I glanced up from the monitor and blinked at him as I paused from our data collection. He’s 15 or so years older than I am, bright and very friendly. Considering his greater experience, I wasn’t sure how to respond to such a statement.

I settled on, “Oh?”

“I didn’t get it, obviously,” he noted and I nodded. He’s a level below my position on the organizational chart, though we are on different branches. Given that I often feel inadequate, I cocked my head and asked if he knew why he hadn't been offered my spot. “I’m too laid back,” he replied.

“I am intense,” I noted thoughtfully.

*****

“I’m sorry to ruin your meeting,” Elegant noted when she stopped by my office, perfectly curled hair swinging about her shoulders.

“You didn’t,” I assured her, swiveling to face her when she arranged herself in one of my chairs.

“But this whole situation is ridiculous,” she sighed, tapping the toe of one fabulous boot. I frowned with envy and tucked my feet, clad in sensible flats, under my chair. “This project has to be done and it wouldn’t take long and he,” she aimed a glare toward Adam’s office, “won’t make them work on it!”

“I know,” I nodded sympathetically.

“You stayed calm,” she said almost accusingly, for I’m usually in complete agreement with her complaints, chiming in while we both gesture wildly and rail against the establishment.

“If my project doesn’t get in,” I said with a smile, “there will be tantrums unlike you’ve ever seen.” She nodded approvingly and we moved to fetch tea to soothe our nerves.

“My head hurts,” I noted as we walked, having been shaking tablets out of the bottle in my desk drawer every four hours to cope. She agreed and we discussed the merits of Excedrin versus Tylenol.

“We care too much,” she decided as we pondered mint versus…well, non-mint. (I always drink mint - I'm not even sure what's in the bins that aren't green.) When I looked at her with my inquisitive expression, she elaborated. “People who don’t mind disappointing people, who don’t really follow up, who are relaxed about the job when they go home – they don’t get headaches. They don’t work 16 hour days. But we suffer.”

*****

“Passionate,” Fred agreed with my assessment.

“I suppose we all are,” I declared after a moment’s thought. Adam enjoys dramatic gestures and is entertained by my frequent rants. He encourages disagreements and fighting over resources. While we get along very well as a group, we also care. It’s not infrequent to say goodnight to a colleague as it nears 9PM. I’m not surprised to get immediate replies to emails I send at 5:30AM. We finished a call to Asia – all of us gathered around Adam’s desk – at 7:30 the other evening, each of us sagging in our chairs as we took notes and assigned tasks to support that team.

*****

So while I would like to physically hurt anyone who writes emails to me with ‘demands’ in all capital letters, I took deep breaths and forced myself not to respond to the bothersome email. I complained bitterly to a friend, cleaned a bit and returned to my laptop. When someone complains about my performance when I’ve put considerable time and effort into being helpful – forsaking other tasks to do so – I’m not mildly annoyed. I’m viciously furious.

In the end though, I love my job. I value my colleagues and am already doggedly loyal to Industry. So I wrote a civil email indicated that email-sender was ‘unbearably condescending and should carefully consider the tone of future correspondence.’ Then I went to work and focused on refining and revising the information he sought.

I considered the intensity of my moods as I slowly moved across the parking lot toward my car, the clicking of my heels on the pavement the only sound I heard. For now, I can’t quite tell how effective I am. But I do know it matters.

Close Enough

Being Away
Since I started writing here, I have posted when sick and sad, home and away, of triumphs and miserable defeats. I'll be honest - the first week without writing left me alternately aching and twitchy. Like most prone to addiction, I missed this and needed it. Yet after several days, I paused one night after hopping around my basement in my imitation of working out and thought it was an odd relief. I wasn't wondering if I'd stated something incorrectly or made someone think badly of me. I could, I thought with no small amount of surprise, stop blogging altogether.

Coming Back
In addition to aerobics, I added a devotional to my daily routine. I rather like the Upper Room. With a vague memory of carefully reading the tiny booklets Grandma brought home from church each month, I traded in my former bookmark for a place that struck me as overly conservative. I find reading the simple stories comforting as I sip coffee and resign myself to driving to work before the sun lights the sky. A couple days ago, there was a message about coming home. About the thrill and sense of rightness that one feels upon returning from a lengthy trip and the anticipation of being welcomed by God upon the end of one's journey here. While it is easy to be distracted from my priorities and purpose, I've found putting some thought into how I spend my time is valuable. Though I know it sounds ridiculous, there was a glimmer of giddy homecoming when I clicked the blue button on the Blogger dashboard that lets me begin a new post.

Catching Up
"You have a beautiful laugh," a colleague told me and I blinked at her, completely distracted from the request I'd come to make, before my lips curved bashfully. Not knowing how to respond, I shrugged. The woman who sits near my office but had never spoken to me before smiled. "I hear you sometimes," she confided, "when someone goes in to talk to you or you're on the phone. And I always smile - no matter what I'm doing - when you laugh." I finally thanked her and wondered if I was being too loud. But the glow of the lovely compliment lingered, reminding me that there are countless moments each day when I giggle and smile and feel lucky to work where I am with the people who surround me.

I spent my birthday weekend, for I am now age 30, with my parents and Little One. They invaded while I was still at work on Friday and created a happy sort of chaos during the days they spent here. We went out only once, spending several hours letting Little One play and bask in our complete attention. She returned to my house to play with Care Bears and Webkinz, diligently furnishing the online rooms of the latter and creating a makeshift jail for a members of the former gang who were being mean. We cuddled. Mom cooked. Dad fixed things. It was a rather lovely weekend. A fact which I continue to repeat in my mind when I think that I don't have a family of my own. And I'm thirty. This isn't what I would have expected when I was younger. But it is not all bad.

"I saw it," Boss wrote me in an email, making me cock my head in confusion, "and it's going to be wonderful." Still befuddled by the cryptic message from my post-doctoral mentor, I continued to sort through email, gasping with delight when I found one from the editor of the journal in which I always wanted to publish. A figure of mine had been selected for the cover. So in addition to the paper I wrote with Penguin and Dr. Icing on days that feel like they happened a lifetime ago, but are faithfully documented in the archives, I shall have a second piece of paper to frame and preen over. And it is, in fact, rather wonderful.

"Oh," I stopped just inside my office door earlier this week, greeted by a profusion of purple and white blooms draping happily from all sides of a pretty vase. The colleagues I so enjoy bought me birthday flowers a day after I'd treated them to cookies to celebrate the occasion. So each day I sit at my desk and answer emails, rush off to meetings or reach for a ringing phone, I breathe in and am cheered by the affection I've found in this space. Above the cut flowers, perched on a shelf that is closer to the light, my violet is in full and impressive bloom. I told a friend the story the other day - of Winnie and the loss of someone amazing, therapy and research into violet care and the eventual flowering of the beloved plant. "We're doing rather well," I told it the other day, speaking quietly in case anyone passed by.

I was excited to find my entry - like last year - made it past a tough crowd of judges (I know - I was one of them) and into Open Lab. When taken out of context, for I read a bunch of posts by people who aren't on my normal lists, I found it was often difficult to become engaged or amused. (My post, by the way, has been edited before final submission - I really like going back to text that's been published and reworking it. It's my favorite part of the Open Lab process.) Given the number of people who come and go, those who employ different styles of writing and topics to discuss, it seems trivial to me to just - should you desire something to read or someone to know - continue to click and skim until something strikes you as nice. If I don't like it - and I'm not shy about saying there's a ton of stuff I think it asinine - I won't read it.

That being said, I think there are people who are fascinating and funny which transitions neatly into the bloggy awards I collected while I wasn't writing. Psych Post Doc and Brigindo were both sweet enough to think of me when they followed the instuctions for recognition I think is truly lovely. It is therefore with some regret that I'm going to screw it up. I'm sorry! I'm bad with things like these - I tend to twist them and use them for my own purposes. So I put my comments in parentheses.

"This blog invests and believes the proximity - nearness in space, time and relationships! These blogs are exceedingly charming. (Aw...) These kind bloggers aim to find and be friends. (I like friends.) They are not interested in prizes or self-aggrandizement. (Oh. I also like prizes and self-aggrandizement. I'm already ruining it.) Our hope is that when the ribbons of these prizes are cut, even more friendships are propagated. (What a sweet thought.) Please give more attention to these writers! [Redacted rules I'm not going to follow] and include this cleverly-written text.”

Disgruntled Julie
Dr. Brazen Hussy
Geeka
Amanda
Lucy
Hypoglycemiagirl
Seeking Solace
Jenn, PhD
Emelectric
ScienceWoman
JustMe
RPG
Microbiologist XX
Saxifraga
JaneB
Estrella
Unbalanced Reaction

There are a few reasons I started to blog - the one that has grown is this sense of friendship I feel for many of you. So for those that commented on my 'taking a break' post and those who are listed in the sidebar, I missed you!

Next Post in February

But I love my blog, I've thought several times in recent weeks. I grow clingy and desperate to keep writing the words that appear here and comfort myself by refusing the very thought. I don't need to stop.

I've spent some time quietly thinking and praying in that vague way of drifting through thoughts, spending time in God's presence rather than going through lists of gratitude or requests. And the thought returns - focus, prioritize, think. And while some people do that beautifully in an online space, I feel my attention is splintered between offering glimpses of what I find important and lovely and being vastly annoyed with those who are ruining blogging.

I am, if we're to be honest, no longer useful to this community. I'm glad I did a post-doc - I learned a tremendous amount and adored writing this blog. But I decided to walk away from academic research. So of discussions of publication or tenure, committee meetings and mentoring issues? I have memories and ideas, but nothing of real value to add. Instead, my loyalties have aligned neatly with the company that pays me. I think we do good work - important projects and products come from my colleagues. Through some blessing or stroke of luck+preparation, I'm in management. When faced with such a ridiculous and amazing fact, I think I can do better. And while I already work too much, I think writing here isn't really helping what I do there.

I have friends I love. I've talked to exactly none of them in the past months. Carrie had a baby. Friend went home and is job hunting. Elle is in a band. M may be moving. I've meant to arrange a weekend with Brazen Hussy and Repressed Librarian for freaking months now. Little One enjoys phone calls and has reached a point where I can actually understand what she's saying. Cousin tried to call but my cell wasn't charged. There are people at work who are bright and interesting and wonderful and I rarely spare an evening to go out with them. That's shameful - that I know these fascinating individuals and spend no time keeping up with them. So instead of selecting synonyms and thinking of cute titles, I'm going to make phone calls and hope my basic dislike of telephone conversations eases with time. (Or I'll make it through my list of friends and think 'thank God that's over.' Either way.)

My gorgeous house is rarely clean, though that's unlikely to change. My space is much like my poor brain - cluttered with too many bits and pieces. But I'd like to keep organizing items and give away what I don't need. I'd like to look into volunteering somewhere. I want to spend time in prayer, figuring out and doing what I ought and what I want and see where I land.

So, while blinking back melodramatic tears and vacuuming my first floor, I decided to take a month away. I'll still read and comment, of course. But you'll miss what was sure to be a moving and depressing post about how I'm turning thirty and likely how it's very cold here and how work is hard but rewarding and blah, blah, etc. Feel free to miss me a tiny bit, but I'll be back in a few weeks. Hopefully I'll have learned something and can tell you about it then.

Let there be light.

We have nothing so crass as streetlights. Instead, there are these lovely lanterns perched atop posts of moderate height before each house on the street.

After moving my loveseat against the opposite wall, I can look out the back door and see a single lamp across the street, lending a gentle glow to its surroundings. Garish holiday lights glitter next door, but my gaze drifts unerringly to that single point of illumination when I glance over to see my pets travel in and out the dog door.

My typical very-end-of-December melancholy is rather gentle this year. There are tugs of dismay when I think of life and goals, progress and, well, lack thereof. I spent the day rather quietly, doing a bit of shopping and cleaning early on and then selecting books from my pretty shelves. Chienne and I lay downstairs, curled on the soft, old couch under a fluffy blanket while I patted her head and turned pages. I moved back upstairs to make a sandwich, tossing bits of turkey to dog and cat while I stood between them, attempting to give Sprout a fighting chance to nibble at his share of the treat.

I’m sipping water rather than champagne, considering a bath rather than a party. But the quiet is nice.

I have a single resolution, for I don’t tend to make them. I will be more faithful this year. While there are any number of action items and tasks to complete that are associated with increased focus on my beliefs, I feel that tonight merits a simple statement of purpose while fixed upon the single point of illumination.

Whether you're spending your evening surrounded by bright lights and loud noises, quietly curled under a lamp with a book or surrounded by candlelight with someone who thinks you're wonderful, I wish you the very best - love, productivity, success, laughter, lasting happiness and health - tonight and always.

It's back to work I go.

"Hello!" I greeted the first man from my group that I saw. "Is that a new sweater? It's very pretty." I waved at another, had a long lunch with a third and stopped by a fourth's desk for a hug.

"Do you find you're working for idiots?" Jay asked while we sat on the laundry room floor after Christmas. I immediately shook my head.

"It's different," I said, for I never learned how to do tasks I'm now required to complete, "but there is tremendous talent in Industry. I have a tremendous amount of respect for my boss and his boss and feel challenged by various responsibilities. I do like it."

"You've been in sales too long," Cousin told him when he looked befuddled by my answer. He nodded his agreement.

I settled at my desk, checked my messages and withdrew a couple of desk pretties I got for Christmas. I went to fetch my mail and sent a letter on the way then grabbed my coat and computer to walk across campus for a meeting. I returned to organize email and tackle a couple of the smaller requests. I wrote letters and evaluated several proposals. I pulled data from archives and glanced through it before submitting it to several new reviewers.

It was quiet - I'd say about half of us are working this week. Instead of conversations - there's a typical chatter as people meet and take phone calls - there was only an occasional word or two spoken while people wrote. Catching up on email, getting documentation completed, filing all those piles of papers that accumulated during the year. It's quite lovely.

I returned home and called to see how things were with my parents. The girls went with their maternal grandparents yesterday and Mom has decided she'll likely retire in January. Dad had questions and advice and I listened patiently. I gasped when Mom took the phone again as something occurred to me.

"I forgot to tell Rainbow Dash Matilda that I loved her!" I said, opening my laptop to go to the Webkinz page. "Oh, no! Today and yesterday - no food, no love. Crap."

"I told Little One's pets I loved them," Mom said, quite superior in her virtual pet care.

"I'm still settling in," I defended myself, clicking on several screens to make sure my online dog was doing well. "But I did pay all my bills yesterday. I'm figuring it out."

I will remember to tell all of you that I'm very grateful for the comments. Family stuff can be hard and I was comforted by what you all wrote. Thank you. If you were a Webkinz, I would totally feed you and buy you cool stuff for your room.

Bittersweet

"I can't do this anymore," I said, throwing my hands in the air for further emphasis. Dad had complained about Brother's messes throughout the house on Saturday night (he's moving in with my parents) and Brother lost it, slamming the door and squealing his tires on his way down the street to show he was wronged and very angry.

He called to say he was returning for the girls because they were his daughters and he wanted them, leading Mom to say that he couldn't have them. Little One was already asleep and Smallest One was on my lap, having cottage cheese and babbling at me. Instead of sharing my opinion that Brother was drunk and out of control, she decided to yell at Dad for being constantly critical. She brought up the fact that he'd retired no less than four times, knowing he feels awkward and guilty about his lack of income. I scooped Smallest One up, hissed "Inappropriate!" at my mother and proceeded down the hall where we pushed all the buttons we could find to start a happily noisy bubble where family unpleasantness continued to intrude.

"I'm sorry," I whispered to her when she turned to look at me. "Brother needs help and makes terrible decisions. Grandpa has always been eager to point out flaws and Grandma and I are very, very dramatic." She grinned at me and I smiled back, pressing a kiss to the fine hair atop her head. I cuddled her, more to comfort myself than the tiny one in my arms, until she squirmed to get down to play.

Mom stormed down the hall and I went to the living room to kiss Dad on the cheek. He would later call Brother to apologize, making me shake my head that this cycle of 'be a selfish asshole and people will bend over to accommodate you!' will continue indefinitely. I moved down the hall to explain to Mom why she'd been wrong, concluding with the fact that I wanted out. "It's too hard to be here," I told her.

"I know," she said, still looking wounded. But it affects me, I defended myself, unable to sleep later on. The worry and hurt, the anger and yelling. I feel unsettled and afraid and I don't like it. I spent some time in prayer, letting my fingers entwine and eyes close as I recited words and drifted through thoughts until I felt more peaceful.

Mom moved my Jeep in the attached garage and Dad helped me load it yesterday morning. Chienne hopped in to impatiently wait for the journey to begin while the three of us caught a howling Sprout and deposited him inside the car as well. I gave hugs and kisses, feeling overwhelming love for each person there as I felt Dad's beard against my cheek, Mom's arms cling, Little One's leap into my arms and Smallest One lifting her face for more kisses. I also felt this miserable regret - I distance myself for my benefit and while it normally makes sense, in the moments when I'm leaving, I nearly suffocate in the crushing guilt.

I felt like I could breathe again as I pulled in my own garage, opening doors to let the animals run outside and downstairs. I rearranged the living room to make room for my new tables, gasped with delight when I found a gift from Friend on the front porch and adjusted the temperature so it was slightly warmer inside, still remaining far cooler than my parents keep their house. I began to settle in again, sleeping deeply last night in the big bed and making my own coffee this morning. I have errands to run and documents to write but feel oddly stuck here - caught between missing those I left and embracing the gentle quiet I've created here.

Christmas Recap

• "Christmas is over," we told Little One as I carefully navigated through heavy fog on the way home last night. I glanced into the backseat and saw she was asleep, her head nestled into the puffy, pink coat she wore.

• Moon Sand is messy. It could be the most awesome substance ever - nearly irresistable, in fact - but the stuff gets everywhere.
• I am excellent at making paper chains and training those who have similar interests.
• When I decide to sit in the cool, quiet laundry room with Cousin's dog while at Aunt's Day-After-Christmas-But-Pretending-It's-Christmas celebration, I will soon have much company. I ended up with Jay and Cousin, Brother and Aunt. The latter suggested we join the rest of the family.
• Children are capable of very high-pitched, impossibly shrill screams. My cousins both have husbands who took turns being trolls and monsters, chasing the four kids around Aunt's house. While Smallest One fell behind and giggled, the other three (age ~4 years) emitted such sounds as to make me long for the laundry room again.
• I laughed until it hurt, wiping tears from my eyes and gasping for breath around giggles when making Strawberry Surprise with Mom. The trigger was rather silly - not even worth explaining since it wasn't particularly funny - but we both leaned on the counter as we laughed and laughed. And it was lovely.
• Dad annoys Little One. A lot. He believes he's teasing. She believes he's an asshole.
  
• "You used to fight like that," Dad told me of my childhood with Brother when I remarked on Little and Smallest Ones frequent squabbles. "Yes," I replied with a frown, "but I hated him."
• "You think of no one but yourself!" I scolded him as we drove to Aunt's. He was 90 minutes late, having "worked" all day while we watched the girls. "I save lives for a living!" he cried. I blinked at him and stared. "You sell apartments for a retirement community!" I finally yelled. "And you're completely delusional!" He smiled and shrugged while I seethed.
  
• "Did you get that for Christmas?" I asked Little Cousin of the giant, pink Barbie airplane. "From Santa," Cousin said. "And it's a party plane - six Barbies, all completely nude."
• Little One got me a Webkinz. She's an American Cocker Spaniel and I've named her Rainbow Dash Matilda. I have also played many Webkinz games so I can - for some reason - buy her stuff for her virtual room. She's currently wearing yoga pants and a red shirt with a matching red bow between her floppy ears. Which reminds me - I need to tell her I love her today and make sure she has enough food. She likes watermelons.
  
• I keep cocking my head at Little One. "If you're going to fake-cry," I suggest, "you should work at being better at it."
• I must go to the toy room to explain computer applications to Dad as often as Little One.
  
• I'm growing used to sleeping with Little One. Mom has a daybed in the back bedroom and we pull out the trundle bed as well. Chienne and I share one while Little One takes the other and it's oddly comforting to open my eyes throughout the night to check and make sure she's OK.
  
• Smallest One dances - she likes theme songs to television shows and the jingles that come from her toys. Her favorite move is putting one arm straight out behind her and crossing the other one across her chest. Then she bounces. It's fantastic.
  
• Dad just gave the garbage men holiday tips. He's very proud.
  
• I think I'll stay until Monday and then head home. Christmas, after all, is over.
  

Quietly Content

I wandered down the hall to join my parents in the living room. It was just before 8:00 and by far the latest I've ever slept on Christmas morning. I'm usually up long before dawn, eager to see what's under the tree and in my stocking.

"Smallest One would have pulled them over on herself," Mom explained when I asked where the embroidered pieces of fabric weren't hanging in their normal spot. Remembering the awful splat her chubby cheek made when it hit the doorway as she fell, I nodded my agreement. She's darling, but a bit accident-prone of late.

"Merry Christmas," I smiled at my parents as I walked to the kitchen to fetch coffee. I unwrapped the small box Dad handed me and smiled before the item was revealed. My penchant for growing disoriented makes Garmin a good gift. I tucked the box neatly in my suitcase, making a mental note to put it in the car for the drive home in a couple days. "Thank you," I said when Dad proudly handed me a package of hangers he'd found tangled in the lights.

"What is this?" he asked as he poked at the boxes wrapped in a large bag decorated with snowmen. "You told Mom to order it," he offered as he drug it to the living room.

"Oh!" I recalled, crossing my fingers. "I hope it's side tables! I need side tables!" He used his knife to open the box, withdrawing pieces of wood before handing me a paper. "It's a side table!" I giggled and tossed presents to Chienne to open while Dad constructed my gifts.

"I like this," Mom offered as Dad worked industriously and glared at the tables he was piecing together. I lounged on the couch, tugging at one end of a new rope while my dog growled and pulled at the opposite end. Mom was curled on the loveseat while we savored the relative quiet, mounds of wrapped gifts remaining under the brightly-lit tree. "It's exhausting when the girls are here."

I nodded - it is. Acknowledging that parenting must be hard as an abstract concept is nothing compared to chasing toddlers and answering questions, reading books, singing songs, answering demands for thirst and hunger and bathroom company. It's constant. So we puttered today - sipped coffee and ate casseroles for breakfast (if it can't be made with those biscuits from the rolls, it is not worth eating), nibbled at leftovers throughout the day and I can hear my parents discussing recipes as they put in ham and cheesy potatoes for a quiet dinner.

"This is for you," Dad said, handing me a Santa bag with a fuzzy, white top. I withdrew a sheet of red tissue paper to smile at the twin boxes inside.

"Aqua globes," I offered, turning the bag to show Brother who had arrived and was sitting next to me on the couch. "I've always wondered who would buy these," I offered absently, reading the directions that come with the plant-watering devices. I nodded when Mom said they were pretty and functional and promised her I'd stick them in some plants when I got home.

It was neither particularly joyous or fabulously merry. The day was rather quiet and sleepy, but we were together and comfortable. I very much hope you and yours had a wonderful day, whatever celebrations it contained.

Unhappy Pre-Christmas

It is not unusual for Dad and I to head off alone on Christmas Eve. I always sigh as we drive toward the mall to dutifully buy a gift for Mom. Why can’t he handle this on his own? Is it really necessary for me to tag along? Provide moral support?

“We’ll go,” I said softly, arm around Brother as his shoulders shook with sobs. “You stay here with Mom and the girls. Dad and I will be back soon.”

“Where is she?” Dad asked as we carefully moved up the icy steps to the front door of Brother’s split level house.

“Upstairs,” I replied quietly. “He said she was by the couch.” We greeted the orange cat and I followed my father up the steps, blinking back tears when I saw her stretched out, motionless on the floor.

Like most dogs, she loved visitors, emitting this happy mixture of bark and cry that indicated her utter pleasure that you’d come to see her. She had a long, black snout that I’d kissed on Monday before she’d gone home. Chienne had tolerated her presence well, trotting outside with the taller, thinner canine while they explored the yard.

“Is she really dead?” Dad asked and I looked away from the german shepherd mix on the floor to blink at him. I nodded and thought he looked rather young in that moment, asking for someone to deny the obvious.

“I can help,” I told him after we covered the body with blankets and garbage bags, fighting back sickness when we discovered she was already stiff. He refused, lifting the bundle and letting me follow him down the stairs. It was quiet when we left, the gray light of a stormy morning creeping sullenly through the windows. It would be terrible for Brother to come home, I thought. Nobody to yip and leap and prance in joyous welcome.

“She was a good girl,” I told Dad as we drove toward home. “So sweet and gentle.”

“Loved to chase her ball,” he offered. “Never ran away. This is awful – now I have a headache.” I nodded my agreement, feeling quite ill as well.

Returning from our grim errand, we took Advil from the bottle Brother had left on the table after he’d arrived. I curled up on the couch, no longer wanting to work, and blinked at the presents that awaited her under the tree. We don’t know what happened, but it appeared that she simply failed to wake up from a long winter’s nap.

"Thanks for going with me," Dad said when he sat down in his chair. I nodded and wished that we'd been to the mall instead.

Written Words - Post 1,000

Upon opening a box of crayons, there is a distinct sense of possibility. Whether pristine points marching in clean rows or leftovers tossed haphazardly in a shiny tin, there is a gently waxy smell while various hues beckon tiny hands to find a space to create. I’ve framed some of Little One’s work, her explorations into imagination seeming impossibly lovely somehow.

It smelled of crayons in a tiny storefront just off the town square. I was 13 the first time I visited, walking tentatively to the old brick building and climbing the two steps up to the glass door that announced the name of the small weekly newspaper. Moving through the entryway, I smelled melted wax and thought of my potential as a writer.

I enjoyed that small room in the front, overlooking brick streets that were as quaint as they come. A large window allowed sunlight to sparkle on the polished counter that held neat stacks of published newspapers and copied forms – birth and death announcements, blank sheets for classified ads with neatly identified pricing structures. At first, I waited until I was invited behind the chest-high counter, moving slowly across creaky floors to the chaos defining the more open space in the back.

Much as I liked the organization that visitors saw, I adored the clutter that defined the production of a newspaper. Stacks of letters awaited reading, scrawled notes bore names and dates, quotes and reminders were strewn about on all surfaces. Minimal organization flowed from front to back – there were two desks on the front wall for the editor and reporter. A single computer used for typesetting rested on a long counter against the side wall and the center island contained tools to cut and paste on the master boards where layout was determined. It was there the wax lay melted and waiting for words to be written and revised.

I never worked at that space, allowing more expert eyes and hands to paste stories in proper places, straighten edges and fit bits of text on the large pages we delivered to the printers every Tuesday. Once those sheets were taken out the back door, we could start on next week’s edition, returning to the desks at the front of the room to read letters, take notes and begin to accumulate words to fill the next set of blank pages.

I was invited to contribute monthly columns before I finished grade school, continuing to write pieces that were not unlike blogs posts until I started college. My initial infatuation turned to lasting fondness for the process as I grew more comfortable there, trading my trembling terror that every word might be wrong for an easier comfort with telling a story under a deadline.

I visited Kathy’s Kozy Kraft Korner for my first “news” piece. She’d recently opened the shop and I recall asking her why she’d changed all the initial letters to k when most should have been c.

“It’s cute,” she replied after staring at me for a moment. I looked around at the piles of items – wrinkling my nose at balls of yarn tumbling from baskets as needles and hooks battled for position in bins.

“Would you like me to spell ‘cute’ with a k?” I finally asked, thinking myself terribly witty. “Or may I use a c?”

I took pictures of our state’s candidate for Miss America when she visited the high school, getting some inane quote about hopes and dreams. I covered a dance recital and car show, happily taking the fluff pieces that didn’t interest the middle-aged woman who edited the paper.

I remember her tucking a lock of bright red hair behind her ear when I asked her to supervise the school paper for my senior year. Unimpressed with the stapled pages that had been produced, I craved newsprint and advertisers during my year as Editor-in-Chief. She hesitantly agreed and I pounced on the opportunity, guiding a staff of 8 to that storefront after hours every other Wednesday so that Mandy could typeset ads from local businesses, Chris could hand in his witty editorials while I admired his eyes (and shoulders and personality), and the underclassmen would stare into the vat of wax in the middle of the room while I carefully edited stories.

“How do you spell that?” Little One asked as we sat at my parents' table this afternoon, canister of crayons beside the lined notebook paper. She was nestled on my lap while I watched over her shoulder, as pleased with her as I'd been with myself when seeing something I'd written appear in print.

Letters, painstakingly written, appeared on the paper in black crayon while we frowned with concentration. Distracted by her small sister and Christmas shows on television, she abandoned me at the table with a final cuddle. I smiled, being a bit overly nostalgic, and breathed in the smell of crayon once more before fitting the lid on the container. There is something impossibly powerful about writing something down, something incredibly wonderful about having someone read and understand and care.

It always has been, and continues to be, full of possibilities.

Injuries, cont.

I called her name, drawing out the first syllable and frowning when my faithful canine did not appear. I shrugged and arranged the covers anyway, deciding to be grateful for the extra room in bed.

I woke at midnight, confused that there wasn't a warm lump behind my knees and wondering what brought me out of a deep sleep. I hurried toward the stairs when I heard the whimpers, calling Chienne's name and looking around frantically as I descended.

"What happened?" I asked her, already smoothing my hands up and down her sides and legs as I checked for obvious injuries. "Sore muscle," I guessed when she seemed to walk just fine but was clearly unable to tolerate climbing steps. It happens sometimes and I always fuss over her, but this is the first problem we've had in the house of many stairs.

I dutifully unfolded the loveseat and removed the mattress from the bed inside. I tossed it on the floor and went back upstairs to fetch blankets and pillows. I settled down with a quiet grumble - I don't like sleeping on the floor! - and huffed a heavy sigh when the dog picked a spot far across the room to rest.

"Fine," I told her haughtily. "I'm going back up."

It was 2AM - not too long after I'd left her alone - when she cried again. Once again, I hurried downstairs and was greeted by sad eyes and a slowly wagging tail. Resigning myself to a night on the floor, I told her she'd feel better soon, gave her an Advil, worried about giving her an Advil and put my top half on the mattress since she'd already claimed the bottom.

Growing queasy from the lack of sleep, I was miserably uncomfortable as well. I crawled over to start a fire, immediately cheered by the flickering flames and gentle warmth. I arranged spare pillows for my legs and deemed the pallet suitable for sleeping. I crawled back, stopping to pat the dog reassuringly and tucking her under a soft blanket. I continued my journey across the floor until I could settle my head on a pillow and flipped through channels since I was awake and uncomfortable.

I wrinkled my nose over juicers, frowned darkly at cooking devices that worked from the top and bottom and paused with some interest for the airbrush make-up device. I'm content with Bare Minerals though so I continued to move through channels. One of the home shopping channels had some ridiculous dessert - chocolate-chip-cheesecake-bread-pudding concoction that I would have totally eaten had I had one.

I don't remember falling asleep, but Chienne was gone when I woke. I made the loop around the first floor, unable to find the hound. I called and called, hearing her yip repeatedly as she made her way up the stairs from the basement. I moved to help her, but my attempts to lift her sturdy body made her yelp. So I winced and coaxed her up the last two steps and closed the door to prevent future errors in judgement.

We slept for a few more hours before Mom called, inquiring over our arrival time. I told her of her granddog's ouchie and decided she'd be more comfortable in my parents' single level home. I promised we'd make the trip today - I just have clean clothes to place in my suitcase - and patted the floor for my glasses.

"No good deed," I began and sighed when I picked up exactly half of the glasses - I had an earpiece and single lens, cracked cleanly where it should have connected to its partner in vision assistance. I walked up to put in contacts, Chienne crying pitifully all the while, and came back down to pet her until she relaxed into sleep again.

I've finished my coffee. I'm moderately awake. So it's time to pack up and head south - injuries in one animal, what is certain to be a foul disposition in the other (Mr. Sprout Does Not Like the car.) and a bit of Christmas spirit in tow.

(Post 1,000 comes tomorrow! Is there anything you want to know but don't? I'm thinking of doing a brief history of Katie, perhaps with photos, but remain undecided.)

Forecast Fulfilled

I sputtered and squinted while my mighty snowblower chugged valiantly though the foot-plus of white fluff piled on what I thought might be my sidewalk. I swore when I realized I was on the grass, estimated an adjustment and grinned triumphantly when I saw pavement appear beneath the mounds of snow.

My pajamas were coated with snow up to my hips and I kept stopping to wipe at my glasses so I could try to orient myself in a world coated with white. Flakes continued to fall. Yet I smiled at the tiny girl down the street covered completely in pink winter-wear as she scampered toward the snow bank, tossing herself into it with a squeal I could hear even over the roar of my red snowblower.

Time does alter perspective. I scampered to the window while brushing my teeth, watching the snow continue to drift from the sky in tiny puffs. Then I tugged on my own winter-wear - a beige coat and black boots, gray gloves and hat. I failed to emit sounds of delight while I cleared sidewalk and driveway and I may have huffed a sigh or two when my glasses prohibited me seeing stuff. But it remained nearly magical - nary a car passed and more children emerged from houses as brightly-colored bundles of energy. The last day of school before Christmas break was canceled and joy ran rampant. What was anticipated had come - the news reports and online listings had allowed them to remain home.


“Do you really want to know if you’re going to get hit by a bus beforehand?” I overheard a woman ask as a group congregated in the hallway yesterday at work. “I,” she continued, “would just as soon have it take me by surprise. Someone walking up and saying, ‘So. On Tuesday at 2:12 in the afternoon, you’re going to get hit by a city bus carrying 12 people heading to the mall to do Christmas shopping. There’s no way to avoid it and I’m truly sorry it’s going to happen, but, yeah. Tuesday.’ I’d rather just walk along and get slammed. Why worry about it?”

For just as the snow was deep and kept falling, the economy is bad and continues to worsen. Reorganization and restrictions come in announcements and meetings. The expectation is that we'll all return from the holidays and learn more of what this means for 2009.

But I looked down the street, seeing reds and pinks, blues and purples move in and around the mounds of white. I had a pastor say she was rarely optimistic but always hopeful. So I'm trying to have faith that the forecast will improve.

Away Right Now

Hello. This is Katie. I'm away from my blog right now because I'm feeling rather blah and have little I want to say. Have a list that many others have already completed.

1. Started my own blog
2. Slept under the stars (I hate camping. Don't understand the appeal.)
3. Played in a band
4. Visited Hawaii (I'm hoping to make another trip in the spring. I love it there.)
5. Watched a meteor shower (In college. It was anti-climatic.)
6. Given more than I can afford to charity (When I started my post-doc, I went a bit crazy with the 'I make money! Have some!' idea.)
7. Been to Disneyland/world (World - multiple times.)
8. Climbed a mountain (The hill was bad enough.)
9. Held a praying mantis
10. Sung a solo (Would you like to swing on a star? 7th grade. I won 1st place.)
11. Bungee jumped (Feel sick just thinking about it.)
12. Visited Paris
13. Watched lightning at sea
14. Taught myself an art from scratch (I took a class in grade school. I can draw a cube. That is all.)
15. Adopted a child
16. Had food poisoning (I still can't eat tenderloins.)
17. Walked to the top of the Statue of Liberty
18. Grown my own vegetables (Well, Friend planted the tomato. And watered the tomato. So this is actually a lie.)
19. Seen the Mona Lisa in France
20. Slept on an overnight train
21. Had a pillow fight
22. Hitchhiked (I did pick one up once. By accident!)
23. Taken a sick day when you’re not ill
24. Built a snow fort
25. Held a lamb (I grew up in a relatively rural community. The lamb came to the classroom!)
26. Gone skinny dipping
27. Run a Marathon
28. Ridden in a gondola in Venice
29. Seen a total eclipse (Maybe - I can't recall.)
30. Watched a sunrise or sunset
31. Hit a home run
32. Been on a cruise
33. Seen Niagara Falls in person
34. Visited the birthplace of my ancestors
35. Seen an Amish community
36. Taught myself a new language (Japanese. If by "language," I can mean "three sentences.")
37. Had enough money to be truly satisfied
38. Seen the Leaning Tower of Pisa in person (In the spring. Hopefully.)
39. Gone rock climbing
40. Seen Michelangelo’s David
41. Sung karaoke
42. Seen Old Faithful geyser erupt
43. Bought a stranger a meal at a restaurant
44. Visited Africa
45. Walked on a beach by moonlight
46. Been transported in an ambulance
47. Had my portrait painted
48. Gone deep sea fishing
49. Seen the Sistine Chapel in person
50. Been to the top of the Eiffel Tower in Paris
51. Gone scuba diving or snorkeling (Snorkeling in O'ahu.)
52. Kissed in the rain
53. Played in the mud
54. Gone to a drive-in theater
55. Been in a movie
56. Visited the Great Wall of China
57. Started a business
58. Taken a martial arts class
59. Visited Russia
60. Served at a soup kitchen
61. Sold Girl Scout Cookies (Long live the Thin Mint!)
62. Gone whale watching
63. Got flowers for no reason
64. Donated blood, platelets or plasma
65. Gone sky diving
66. Visited a Nazi Concentration Camp
67. Bounced a check (Once - just after I moved. I was humiliated.)
68. Flown in a helicopter
69. Saved a favorite childhood toy (Lots and lots.)
70. Visited the Lincoln Memorial
71. Eaten caviar
72. Pieced a quilt
73. Stood in Times Square
74. Toured the Everglades
75. Been fired from a job
76. Seen the Changing of the Guards in London
77. Broken a bone
78. Been on a speeding motorcycle
79. Seen the Grand Canyon in person
80. Published a book (Chapters! And I've written two books! But I still can't bold.)
81. Visited the Vatican
82. Bought a brand new car
83. Walked in Jerusalem
84. Had my picture in the newspaper (I used to write a column.)
85. Read the entire Bible
86. Visited the White House
87. Killed and prepared an animal for eating
88. Had chickenpox (In junior high - that was positively hideous.)
89. Saved someone’s life
90. Sat on a jury
91. Met someone famous
92. Joined a book club
93. Lost a loved one
94. Had a baby
95. Seen the Alamo in person ("Is that it?" I said.)
96. Swam in the Great Salt Lake
97. Been involved in a law suit
98. Owned a cell phone
99. Been stung by a bee
100. Ridden an elephant

Road Trip

“Blog post! Blog post!” I chirped – happily but quietly – to myself once ordered inside the car by the two men filling the flat tire. I had emerged under the guise of contributing, lasting for approximately 3 seconds in the -20° wind chill before I shivered – delicately but obviously – so they would offer me the protection of our broken chariot.

I watched, tugging my coat closer to me, and made my ‘Icky! Icky!’ face as I watched a drop of clear liquid drip from the tip of One’s nose. That happens, I decided, when it’s very, very, very cold. But still. Ew.

“Katie?” Other said, opening the door and earning a frown with the inquisitive look I offered. “Do you have quarters?”

“Of course,” I replied, reaching into my bag for my wallet and withdrawing three coins before placing them in his gloved hand.

We’d been driving for about two hours, meeting before dawn. “It’s just cold,” I guessed when he asked why the tire indicator light was on in the rental car. “It’s also flat,” I concluded later as someone waved us down and informed us our rear tire had little life left. We filled it up. We drove slowly to the next town and traded our broken car for a more functional one.

After moving suit jackets, laptop bags, gadgets and assorted winter paraphernalia to the giant pickup – it was all they had left – we set off to drive another 3 hours to our destination.

“Nice to see you again,” I said multiple times. I made my pitch, answered some questions and smiled at the people in the audience once more before heading off to new meetings. I took notes and offered ideas and grinned widely at one doctor I enjoy tremendously. I beamed when he winked at me and waved when he was called away. Trotting back to join One and Other, we took two more meetings before braving the cold once again.

When it dips below 0, the contrast between the cozy warmth inside and bitter cold out can make me breathless. “Goodness,” I murmured as I braced myself.

“Awesome!” Other said loudly before offering me his gloves. I shook my head, but offered my thanks as my heels clicked across the pavement, quickly carrying me toward the safety of the truck.

I sat in the backseat, leaning forward to ask questions and share thoughts. I quivered with eagerness over some ideas and bit my lip with worry over others.

“I talked to a friend last week,” I told them before they dropped me off. “And as stressed as I get – which is weird because I’ve done things much more technically difficult than this – she said I sounded really happy. I think this is important. I very much want to be good at it. So I am happy.”

“Good,” Other smiled as he nodded.

“Very good,” One agreed before bidding me good night. They watched as I got in my car, started it and waved. I stifled a yawn and headed toward home. Once here, I greeted a happy dog and hungry cat, took a shower and snuggled into pajamas. My suit is crumpled on the bathroom floor, my laptop bag still in the car as it waits for my 8AM meeting tomorrow morning. As for me, I’m off to bed – I’ve grown sleepy.

Before the Storm

November 30, 2008
Today we walked, moving briskly through the chilly morning in the hours where it was gray and calm before it turned blustery and snowy.

As my muscles warmed, my head cleared of the insistent ache and I breathed in air that was just the right side of sharply cold. I've always meant to reach the path that parallels the highway, never able to peer far enough from my car to tell where it leads. So I tugged Chienne away from trees and hydrants as we moved up and down hills and around curves toward the elusive path.

Somewhere between the time I left the house and the point where I got lost in a field of weeds, I began to consider science and beauty, blogs and significance as I enjoyed the way the wheat-colored weeds rustled in an otherwise quiet morning.

To provide perspective, I have always worked in clinical research. I met patients and their families. I prayed over their struggles and wept when they died, that red mark denoting their final day on Earth ill-equipped to provide insight into their struggle against disease. I'd go so far as to say that what I do can be ugly - dictated by profit margins and sales forecasts, requiring people to offer their bodies and time for us test our hypothesis. When hope becomes fleeting and I reach to support trembling limbs as people wracked by disease attempt to offer what they can to advance knowledge? This job is repulsive. Utterly hideous.

There were many reasons I stepped back, decided I simply didn't want to make a career actively performing studies. But when I look at clinical research, I find it stunningly important - we know how a drug works in the human body, we understand how to detect disease earlier with this one technique, we can help that group of people.

"You convinced them it was significant," Boss often said of grant applications and journal submissions. For that was always clear to me - here's why this is important. But as to how it can be done well and structured properly? I got lost in asking a sick patient to return for two more visits when I thought once might be enough. I wanted to examine data I had rather than getting more. I worried about problems and suffering we might cause. I simply wasn't good at what I did.

December 12, 2008
I'm not sure I'm better now, frankly. The landscape I admired on my walk weeks ago - around the time this post was started but left unfinished - has been crushed or buried under persistent falls of snow. I glanced at the sign that warned of thin ice the other day, nodding at the wisdom of those who posted it. What had clearly been a small pond now appeared to be a field of snow - differentiating between water and land was all but impossible until, I assumed, one ended up very cold and wet.

I read today that unhappiness, once endured for long periods of time, can be disguised as contentment. I pondered it for a moment, recalling times I categorized as content and nodded my agreement. The realization that I'll be doing two jobs for the foreseeable future has me concerned. Blanketing life under an endless stream of tasks that are Vitally Important isn't useful for personal growth and happiness. I predict I'll become my work, knowing little other than what Industry wants and needs.

"When money is available again," I told Mom, "they won't hire anyone to help me because I will have done it all along." She agreed and I fretted for a moment before remembering to feel grateful for job security.

I remember when I took my post-doctoral position that I wanted a few things. A house with a dog door and a king-sized bed are the two I remember and I got them both. On the most recent job search? I wanted to be closer to home. To be busy and feel productive. And to make money.

"Huh," I said to my dog when we ended up under a road on that path I wanted to follow. She turned to look at me, pausing when I asked her to wait while I took a photo. "I guess this is where we were going," I said quietly, glancing around to see if anyone would witness my comment. "I thought it would be different."

With a last look over my shoulder at the rocks beside the river under the bridge, I tugged Chienne back toward home. "Not exactly what I expected," I told her as she pranced beside me, happy to be outside and seeing someplace new. I smiled down at her, and tried to take a shortcut - ended up lost in a giant field, getting scratches from trying to cut through a forest and cursed my inability to orient myself.

"At least," I huffed when we finally made it home, "we know what's there now."

Arrival of the Snow Blower

"Hello?" I murmured, having rolled out of my snuggly nest of sheets and comforters and multiple pillows to answer the phone. It was around 6:30 and darkness still cloaked the world outside. I wondered if Dad was calling to say he was leaving the house, but smiled when he informed me that he was down the road, had obtained coffee for us and would be here shortly.

I walked downstairs in my pajamas, opening the door to the garage to flip the switches, illuminating my bulbs outside. Shivering when I closed the door, I turned on the television, found The Weather Channel (Dad likes The Weather Channel) and told Chienne her grandpa was on his way. Her eyes widened and ears perked before her tail began to wag with frantic anticipation. I sat on the loveseat, feeling similarly eager. I'm feeling better - still slow and shaky, but regaining my color and ability to function.

"Hi!" I greeted Dad when he opened the door but was firmly pushed aside by an ecstatic and overly large canine. When Chienne finally calmed a tiny bit, he handed me a lidded cup and we sat down to talk. His white beard has grown longer and I realized the happy anticipation we felt before his arrival was rather seasonal. He looks a bit like Santa.

"Are you staying overnight?" I asked, wondering if he'd left his bag in the car.

"No," he answered. "I just brought the snow blower for you. We'll get it put together and running and then I'll drive back home."

"But it's so far," I noted with a frown. I nodded when he said he liked to drive - he could listen to the radio real loud and slam on the brakes when someone followed too close and wasn't at home to hear Mom complain at him. I smiled and tugged on my jacket to follow him out in the garage, watching as he moved the giant box out of Mom's Jeep and ripped one side open to reveal the shiny machine.

We tightened some knobs to raise and secure the handle. We filled the oil and gas tanks. He taught me how to start it - turn choke to the left, move lever halfway between turtle and bunny, plug in, press button. Then when it starts to go 'blub, blub, blub' I am to turn the choke back to the right, unplug and push on the handles to start the snow-picker-upper blades and the self-propelled action. Then I jump, startled, and begin to chase the shiny machine as it moves along, merrily flinging snow.

"Remember to turn this handle," Dad advised as he moved the black plastic that controlled the snow that the snow-picker-upper blades picked up, "and pay attention to the wind. If you blow the wrong way, you'll get a bunch of snow in your face." Then, when I was at the end of the sidewalk, sputtering as bits of snow and ice bombarded my face, he walked over and turned the handle for me. I offered a grateful smile and continued on my way.

I bought him breakfast and listened to his stories while picking at toast with jelly. Then he drove me back to the house, departing after hugs and kisses and final snow removal instructions. I waved and acknowledged that I didn't realize how much I'd missed my parents until I'd seen Daddy walk through the door.

"I'll see you next weekend," I told him as we hugged goodbye. And, for the first time in my house with sparse decorations and few presents purchased, I began to grow happy about Christmas. My present is drying off in the garage.

Slow

Today I had toast and Jello.

"Dry toast is not tasty," I wrote to Friend.

"Put jelly on it," she said after commenting about her head hurting from rolling her eyes at me.

"I did not have jelly," I defended my choice.

"Use Jello," she replied after a moment.

"Oh," I said, thinking very hard. "Would that even work? I don't think that would work."

"Jelly = fruit + gelatin," she explained. "Jello = fake fruit + gelatin."

"Oh," I said and conceded she might have a point.

Though I was even slower than normal today, I did manage to do some work. I answered email. I took two phone calls, both of which required me to present a good deal of data to an audience I was meant to impress. The first call went stunningly well, but left me shaking with the need for additional Tylenol by the end of the 90 minute conversation.

Prior to the second meeting, Adam called. We discussed my health and I graciously accepted his offers of sympathy and well wishes. He covered a few points I've missed during my days of misery and I stopped him when he reached the one of interest/worry.

"Do you know something? What do you know?" I demanded. He laughed at me before outlining the situation.

"So," I said after thinking for a moment, "this means that I get to keep working for you. But I still have to do A+B rather than just B."

"Now would I ever fire someone so smart?" he teased. "That's pretty much it - you're doing great. I'm very pleased with you. But you are unlikely to get help with the role," he noted.

"I can do it," I offered after a moment and smiled when he noted I already was. I replaced the phone in the cradle, thinking that had things worked out differently, I'd be somewhere other than in my darkened basement, preparing to present material to an Ivy League institution. Had I not pushed so hard for an offer, I would have ended up lost in the hiring freeze. Had Adam hired someone for A in addition to me for B, I'd currently be in a much more precarious position.

"Safe, but stressed," I summarized and Chienne huffed grumpily when my voice disturbed her nap. I turned to smooth Sprout's coat when he came closer and looked for understanding from the unhappy, stripey creature.

"Like getting to go outside whenever you want, but never catching anything," I explained, pulling my hand away when he twisted to bite me. The lack of good hunting has him ready to attack - I have wounds to prove it.

I do like my job. I'm also fond of my house and car. So I'm relieved. Happy. Just a little slow.

RIF

It was predictable, I told myself after reading the flurry of mass emails from powerful men. Hiring has been frozen for two months. New job postings are nonexistent. We've taken a 'wait and see' position, but - as people like to do - hoped that all would right itself and those people we'd like to have around could be brought on board.

Meetings have been ongoing to determine resources for next year. Industry has a number (so many I'm not sure of the exact quantity) of businesses and allocates money to each of us - like an allowance - so we can produce the things we sell. We may scale back, people warned, and I winced at the thought. I'm here! Have ideas! So let's do cool projects and release kick-ass packages!

"So you'll come to London in January?" a collaborator said on the phone before dawn today. A delightful man I badly want to meet, he complimented my proposals, noted I have a lot to offer and said they'd welcome my visit to their lab. I blinked rapidly and tried to focus, forcing myself to listen and think despite shuddering through fever and pain.

"I'd love to," I replied sincerely, for I love London very much. "I'll see what I can manage," I concluded and winced at the pain in my head and memory of how many excellent research sites I've deflected when they invited me to come. I'm desperate to meet people, examine projects, evaluate ideas. I have a call tomorrow to define a shared vision on a different topic - one I feel passionately is important and deserving of attention.

A Reduction in Force means my particular business could be asked to lay people off. Though logically I feel reasonably safe - I work in a team that should be staffed by 7 and has only 4 - I remain afraid. For even if I keep my job, I'm helpless to manage projects that can't be funded. Ideas matter little if they can't be integrated.

I've had Jello to eat over the last 2 days. And I'm growing despondent about the future.

Sick (and Snowy)

My right leg is comfortable, I decided as I curled on the floor. Determined to find some reason to live, I tried to focus on how the muscles were relaxed in my thigh and calf, ankle and foot. Nestled on a pallet of freshly-laundered linens, I made small adjustments to my nest on the floor of the bathroom in the basement. I swallowed against a wave of nausea and my right leg cramped when I pulled myself into a ball of shuddering misery.

I hate to throw up so I breathed shallowly, trying to cling to control over the shards of pain poking at me. I focused on the sounds of the washing machine, moaning pitifully when I rolled so I could see the t-shirts as they sloshed through the wash cycle in my front loading washing machine. I tucked an arm under my head, wondering if I was feverish. My stomach clenched warningly and I curled my toes in irritation. I was tired of being sick.

But, as was my plan, the sound and smell of washing clothes lulled me into a fitful nap. I woke, unsure of how much time had passed, when the machine beeped at me. I blinked at it stupidly, finally realizing the clothes were ready to dry. I stood slowly, gripping the counter for balance, and shivered when I realized I was freezing. I tugged a sheet around my shoulders and shuffled toward the washer, breathing in the clean and tossing wet shirts in the dryer. I set the dial and depressed the gray button to begin the tumbling anew.

I trudged upstairs, sheet dragging behind me, and flopped on the loveseat before squirming with discomfort. I continued upward and flopped on my bed, feeling restless and miserable. I finally settled, prone and propped on various pillows across the foot of the bed. I watched as fluff continued to settle on my upstairs deck, feeling vaguely guilty that I hadn’t shoveled a new path for the puppy off the back deck. Another inch drifted from the sky, swirling playfully in the brisk winds, and soothed by the gentle fall of snow I paid someone to shovel, I went to sleep again.

Fail

"But I don't want to pay $1,000," I said sadly to the fifth salesman at the fifth store. Apparently when it continues to dump snow upon my location, snow blowers sell out. Which makes me sad. But I hired a guy down the street to deal with the current mess and will use him again to deal with the additional foot that's supposed to arrive soon.

Living up north may not have been the best of plans.

*****

"Two of these," I murmured, examining bibs and onsies and tossing them in the bright red cart. "Two of those," I decided, selecting bottles in pretty colors. "They can share books," I declared, selecting five.

"Sunday," I sighed when I realized that Carrie's new twins will not receive gifts from "Aunt" Katie as soon as I planned. The post office wouldn't accept my large box stuffed with toys and clothes and blankets and books today and I won't have time to stop by until Saturday. This week is going to be another busy one.

*****

"So she said yes?" I asked the people on the phone when we talked an hour ago. I thanked them for taking time to talk on a Sunday and scowled with all my pouting power when they confirmed that WWE had committed to doing this project I think is a fucking terrible idea.

"I'm done talking about it," I told Adam last week, unconcerned when he frowned at me. "If you people won't listen to what I say - even when I'm clearly right! - then screw it. Do what you want."

"We'll meet about it on Monday," he decided and when I muttered that I didn't know why, he raised his eyebrow at me.

"We'll meet about it Monday," I repeated dutifully and narrowed my eyes when he winked at me.

I never get to win.

*****

"I don't know how much longer I can do this, Katie," Beaker said when I told him he didn't look good. I made my sympathetic and thoughtful face at him and considered the situation for a moment.

"I work all the time, too," I finally offered. "I don't know how to manage it, kiddo. It's just constant pressure and projects and timelines. I honestly can't imagine having a family and trying to do this job. It's just hard."

He nodded. I nodded. Then we went back to work.

*****

"I don't want to go!" I told Adam in a different conversation. "I want to stay for the meeting here!" I continued, realizing with some dismay that I was whining.

"Book it," he said firmly and I barely restrained myself from stomping my feet. I turned to my computer to buy tickets and alter my travel plans for next week, not at all pleased about the situation.

"It's going to be over $1K," I emailed him, hoping this provided evidence that it was a terrible idea to not let me come home on schedule. But then I remembered people out east make use of trains to ferry themselves up and down the coast. So I booked a ticket on Amtrak and rearranged some flights so I can eventually get back.

*****

I'm OK - I feel stable and not at all near despair. But this is hard. And, seriously, I never get to win.